Deathmaster Chronicles, Book 1
by dahlesreb
Summary: The year, 2040. The Statute of Secrecy is in tatters, the Wizarding world on the brink of extinction. Harry Potter is a wanted fugitive, considered an international terrorist and nicknamed the Deathmaster. Will his desperate gamble to save the world work? Time!Travel, Independent!Harry, Harry!Mentors!Harry. Book 1 covers the Hogwarts years.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

PROLOGUE - PART 1

DEATHMASTER

YEAR 2040

London had grown ever upward since the first skyscrapers were built in the 1960's. Now the city was unrecognizable, a forest of mile-high towers, each one a different shape and sparkling with dazzling lights from millions of HD displays and hue-shifting mood-lighting.

A man stood atop one of the tallest of these towers, looking down on the city. The night was moonless and cloudy, reflecting the lights of the city down on it and bathing everything in a soft, ambient glow.

Loathing surged through the man's veins. He knew once he would have felt a sense of wonder at this sight. At what the Muggles had accomplished.

Yet the same things which achieved this awe-inspiring sight; the same ingenuity, the same efficiency, the same exponential population growth, which had taken everything from him.

His wife, his children and even his young granddaughter. His friends and comrades. His sworn enemies, too, and he even hated the Muggles for that.

He knew they hated him too. The Deathmaster, they called him. An international terrorist, the most wanted criminal in the world. He supposed he deserved the label, though the precise details of the propaganda put forth about him were invariably fabrications.

The average Muggle - oblivious, self-obsessed consumers that they were - still didn't know magic existed. The big multinational corporations, on the other hand, had figured it out some time in the 2020's.

The revolution of the 2000's was mobile technology. The revolution of the 2010's was social media. The revolution of the 2020's was artificial intelligence.

Take ubiquitous mobile devices with cameras and microphones. Then connect everyone in the world into a giant network of instant communication. Then add the ability to collect and process all the data being exchanged.

Then add the ability to automatically search for patterns; and with AI to understand all this data and to see the things that don't make sense - at least, by Muggle standards.

A formula for catastrophe. He understood all these things now that it was too late. That the Statute of Secrecy had been doomed from the start, due to the inexorable progress of Muggle technology.

The Magical world had never really understood capitalism. They didn't have the population growth for it, and capitalism as the Muggles practice it demands never-ending growth.

More profit, more goods, more choices, more roads, more houses, more people.

At first it had just been a few witches and wizards disappearing, here and there. As Chief Auror, he had investigated such cases himself and been perplexed. No magical traces, and never any witnesses.

The people just disappeared. With no evidence to go on, at the time he'd dismissed them. Focused on hunting down Dark wizards. Protect Magical and Muggle alike from the worst elements of his society.

How naive he had been. They all had been, his fellow Aurors, and their other colleagues in the DMLE. The Obliviators and the Accidental Magic Reversal squads. Well-meaning fools, all of them.

All the while, they were being watched by the cold, lifeless glass lenses on innumerable connected devices. Live video and audio streams fed back over wireless internet, collected in massive underground, climate-controlled data centers.

And recognized as anomalous by a deep-learning neural network, flagged to the human overseers of that system at a technology mega-corporation.

First one, then many knew the Magical world's secret. Mega-corporations were always neck-and-neck with their competitors. Soon all the big players were all competing to get their hands on some Magic.

Tracked by the way magic interfered with the Muggle electronic devices. Any advantage in self-defense was ultimately negated by the fact that using magic allowed the Muggles to track us.

The upper echelons of the mega-corporations wanted the good stuff for themselves though, and they kept the public in the dark. Called Magicals terrorists. Said our wands were high-tech, that combined holographic projection with aerosolized hallucinogens.

Even when the narrative didn't totally make sense, people attributed it to drug-addled memories. Digital evidence in the Internet storage cloud was easily doctored by AI systems monitoring upload activity.

The corporate stranglehold on the Muggle media meant the only people asking any questions were "nut-job" conspiracy theorists. People who lived on the fringe and didn't care about their social credit score. The sort of people no one would miss if they disappeared.

So yes, they called him a terrorist, and he embraced it. The Deathmaster. He would not accept the extinction of his people, would not lie down and submit.

Many Muggles died. Too many to count. Those who were sent after them, and innocent bystanders as well.

Collateral damage. He was in a fight for the survival of his entire world, and it was not his fault this fight was kept a secret from the rest of the Muggle populace by his enemies.

That they risked attacking him in the presence of innocents, and he had to prioritize his own safety above random bystanders. His adversaries certainly paid their lives no heed.

He had long since stopped letting himself care, stopped even noticing. None of the innocent Muggles had noticed when his people had been destroyed. No, their lives had fueled the economic engine that had given a select elite the power to destroy the Magical world.

For it had been destroyed. He still fought, but the war was over. Everyone he had fought for was dead. He knew that isolated magical communities must still exist in secrecy, but their days were numbered.

A network of satellites and armies of autonomous vehicles scanned the world relentlessly for them, under the tireless guidance of advanced artificial intelligence. All in the name of counter-terrorism.

Robots would be sent to hunt them down. Hunter-killers. Capture or terminate, based on a rational risk-reward assessment. Targets posing a threat to company property - the robot - are terminated.

He'd become quite effective at destroying the damn machines. He hated them even more than Muggles, damn soulless metal demons. But he'd had a lot of practice with that sort of thing, for basically his whole life.

The Deathmaster, the Master of Death, the Vanquisher of Voldemort, the Boy-Who-Lived. Husband, father, grandfather. He had been called many titles, served many roles.

A Child of Prophecy since his birth, he'd always had an unearned reputation.

But Harry Potter also had a reputation he had earned. That he might lose a few battles, but in the end, he won the war.

And god damn it. He was going to win this one.

A chime pulsed in his right ear. It was time.

He stepped off the edge of the tower.

The sea of sparkling lights blinked out around him. Racing him outward as he fell down, the power outage cascading out in a pulse of darkness. Soon a ten-by-ten block radius would be out.

The Muggle hacker he put under the Imperius Curse to sabotage the local substation control system said that, anyway. He always assumed something would go wrong, but this time nothing did.

Good hacker.

Still in free-fall, he pulled his broom out of an expanded Moke-skin pocket in the side of his battle-scarred and bullet-pocked dragon-hide armor. Auror issue Mark VI, with heavy customization.

The final production model, deployed to active forces in 2033. Only a year before everything had really gone to shit.

Flipping the broom between his legs, he swerved around a dim obstruction. A maze of walkways and tubes connected the buildings. Normally lit from the inside, they were nearly invisible in the darkness of the blackout.

Yet Harry had been a star Seeker, and navigating the shadowy obstacles posed no real challenge to him. In an earlier time he'd have found it an enjoyable test of his prowess in the air.

Now though, he was a man on a mission, swift and silent. Hedwig would be proud.

Hermione had confided the emergency protocols of the Department of Mysteries to him once. Said the burden was too much for her alone to bear, as Minister.

And she had not fully trusted the Head of the Department. No one ever really trusted the Unspeakables.

Harry's gut clenched. He missed his friend, missed her fiery intellect and compassionate heart. They had lost her, along with much of the government, before they'd even known they were at war, in the opening salvo.

The mega-corporations had deeply infiltrated the Magical world, built models and simulations. Ran projections with game theory. Figured the British Ministry was too effective under Hermione's leadership. Best to take it out preemptively rather than face potential highly competent resistance.

He'd survived that one by accident, yet again. His next-in-command was covering for him at the big meeting at the Ministry with the Wizengamot. That's why he'd promoted a pencil-pusher, after all. Tracking Dark wizards was more fun than sitting at an uptight government function. Back then, when he still had the capacity to have fun.

They'd been oblivious, completely unprepared for what was coming. An army of killer robots, drilling into the Ministry from underground. It was a bloodbath. He doubted he could have stopped it, but that didn't stop him from blaming himself for not being there. He would have tried.

The witches and wizards there, among the most skilled in Britain, put up a valiant resistance.

Yet they were massively outnumbered, clustered together. They were sitting ducks. The speed, precision, and destructive power of the Muggle death machines overwhelmed them.

So it had been when his family was taken from him. Oblivious, off alone on a self-imposed mission, left alive by accident.

Hogwarts had been the last refuge, the last bastion of resistance. Of freedom from a life spent in restraints and sedated in a Muggle research facility.

He had plumbed the depths of the Castle's secrets in search of a solution to their crisis. All for nothing, merely grasping at straws in the dark.

He'd been up late, exploring his latest finds in the Chamber of Secrets, alone. He still couldn't think deeply about it. Made him too angry.

Tactical nuke. It felt like an earthquake in the Chamber, carved deep into a thick layer of bedrock. The rest of Hogwarts was leveled.

He'd gone on a bit of a rampage, when he'd fully grasped what had happened. His whole family. After what he did that day, it was fitting they called him the Deathmaster.

Growling, Harry shoved aside the ever-lurking rage that reared up, for he had reached his destination. It was time for the next stage of his infiltration.

The River Thames was still exposed to the air in some places, flowing through slits in the manmade canyons of the city. One of the few features of the original geography left in the modern metropolis. People still paid a premium for the view.

There it was - a small gap between two buildings that spanned the river.

Harry maneuvered his way into the narrow space, drifting down to a stop, hovering just above the water's surface. Snapping his wand into his hand from a holster on his wrist, he tapped a patch on the Mark VI's breastplate depicting three wavy lines, activating the suit's aquatic mode.

Fins sprang out of the suit, small ones from the arm and leg plates and larger ones from the boots, and a Bubble-Head Charm activated around the suit's hood. Performing a Sloth Grip Roll, Harry unhooked his legs from the broom and let them sink silently into the water. Exerting a flicker of willpower with a mental command, he deactivated the broom's flight charm.

The dragon-hide armor made him denser than water, and he pressed the broomstick into a crevice in the center of his breastplate as he sank. The Modified Sticking Charm placed there worked a bit like Muggle Velcro, and would free up his hands for swimming while keeping his broom within easy reach.

His feet hit the silty riverbed. Tapping his wand to the top edge of his hood, he activated the built-in Lighting Charm. This deep in the murky waters, the light wouldn't be visible from the surface.

They'd learned early on in this war that, for whatever reason, the Muggles weren't able to detect the activation of Charmed objects the way they could detect spellcasting or Apparition. While such magic was very limited compared to what could be done with a wand, it had often given Harry the edge he'd needed to survive his one man guerilla war.

Kicking off the bottom, he holstered his wand and began swimming upriver, his long diving fins easily propelling him forward against the current. The river would be entirely underground soon, as it passed beneath denser, cheaper residences for those unable afford water views.

His target was just over two kilometers from his insertion point, not far at his current pace. Those scheming bastards at the Department of Mysteries had given Hermione and him a headache over the decades they'd spent at the helm of the Ministry.

Ministry politics were a byzantine mess in general, with the typical squabbling for larger budgets and increased authority endemic to well-entrenched bureaucracies. Yet the Unspeakables were far worse, holding themselves above such mundane concerns as budgets and bylaws.

With the Death Eaters largely out of the picture, Harry's Auror forces began stumbling onto the more subtle criminal plots of certain Unspeakables. His internal investigations were stonewalled despite Hermione's vigorous support as Minister, with the Department hiding behind their extensive secrecy oaths.

Yet despite the Department's significant power, Harry and Hermione were still quite a force to be reckoned with. Together they had delved deeply into the collection of mysterious artefacts and forbidden magics the Unspeakables guarded so zealously. Unfortunately, however much they learned, the criminal network they pursued always remained a step ahead of them, right up until the end.

If the Unspeakables foresaw the apocalypse brought on by the Muggles, they'd done nothing to prevent it. Harry sneered; they had considered themselves far above other wizards, let alone Muggles. He had no doubt most of them had been captured quickly, too confident in their wands to overcome whatever the Muggles could throw at them.

The Unspeakables were gone along with everyone else, but the Department itself was another matter. Built long before any of the current Unspeakables were born, before the Ministry itself was founded and built on top of it, the Department was one of the most magically protected locations in existence.

Every Minister learned that in the case of the Ministry's destruction, the Department of Mysteries would go into total lockdown mode. The normal entryway, via the Ministry's elevator system, was permanently and irreversibly disconnected, with all Department personnel transported by Portkey to an evacuation zone in the Outer Hebrides.

This was done for their own safety, because at that point the Department went into a Stasis Rift, separating it from Time and Space entirely, protected and preserving its contents. Unfortunately for those wanting a way to skip a few decades or centuries into the future, entering a Stasis Rift was quite fatal.

Harry was distracted from his thoughts by a massive, shadowy shape looming out of the darkness ahead. That must be it, he thought. Swimming closer he confirmed that he had indeed reached his destination. A huge boulder sat on the bottom of the Thames, sunk deep into the soft bottom.

As he got within arm's reach of the stone, his hood-torch revealed a jagged crack nearly splitting it in half. Good. That meant the Department was still in stasis.

He draw his wand and inserted it into the fissure, while reciting a passphrase that every Minister of Magic was required to commit to memory on their first in office.

Hermione had insisted he learn it too, "just in case," once she had realized how little the Unspeakables respected her authority as Minister. Legally, it was her prerogative to do bring him in, as Chief Auror, if it was a matter of state security, which she had deemed it to be.

He repeated the passphrase seven times. As the final syllable left his lips, a faint light blossomed inside the boulder, shining out through the fissure.

Slowly, with a great deal of hissing and bubbling, the boulder opened, splitting apart like a clam-shell and revealing it to be a massive geode. The inside was encrusted with sparkling crystal nodules of agate and jade.

A circle was carved into the center of the crystals, inside which was set a round door made of an inky black metal. Grabbing the protruding metal handle firmly, Harry heaved with all of his strength, rotating the handle and activating the mechanism within.

The Department of Mysteries was once again in the here and now. With a faint click, the door swung outward, revealing a pitch black opening. With a few lazy flicks of his feet, Harry drifted through, pulling the hatch shut behind him.

He was in a cylindrical tunnel, about his height in diameter, straight as an arrow and bored directly through bedrock. The sides of the tunnel were as smooth as glass, and Harry briefly pondered on how it had been constructed.

Melted, he thought; perhaps with a modified version of the Welding Torch Charm. He'd read about such spells being used for tunneling into Goblin strongholds during one of the rebellions, but details had been scant, and he'd never had a reason to attempt it himself.

After several hundred yards of swimming, his hood-torch illuminated an identical round hatch door at the far end of the tunnel. Harry went through, securing the door behind him.

He was now in a small, featureless room excavated from the bedrock, with a metal grate floor. As soon as the door's seal was tight, a deep rumbling began, activating a sluice gate mechanism below, and the water level in the room started dropping.

Once his head was exposed he deactivated his suit's aquatic mode, then waited, impatient.

Finally, once the water dropped below the level of the grate, an ornate wooden door appeared in one of the walls, bearing a brass plate with the inscription:

Department of Mysteries

Back Door

There was no door knob. Harry frowned. Hermione's briefing hadn't mentioned that. Something obvious, then. He tapped the plate with his wand and the door swung in, revealing a long maroon-carpeted hallway, well-lit by glowing sconces set into wood-paneled walls.

He moved through, the door shutting itself with a soft click behind him. Since it had just emerged from a Stasis Rift, he should be the only living being in the Department.

In theory. Harry had developed a healthy skepticism of theory over the years.

After all, as the Boy-Who-Lived, he knew from direct experience that even the most certain rules had exceptions in the world of magic. Caution was always warranted, or as Alastor would have put it, "Constant Vigilance!"

He reached into his armor's Moke-skin pouch, extracting the Invisibility Cloak. Sticking Charms on his dragon-hide spaulders keyed to the magic of the Cloak kept it in place, molded to his armor. He could stand in a hurricane and it wouldn't flap open.

"Damn, I'm going to miss this armor," he muttered.

Nothing could go with him, where he was going. Or, more precisely, no physical objects.

He tapped his left bracer with the tip of his wand seven times. A seam appeared along the length of the bracer, then split open, revealing a long, narrow compartment. There, nestled into the soft velvet lining, was the Elder Wand.

He switched it out with his trusty holly wand, and it snapped shut. Harry only ever used the Deathstick for the most critical or difficult tasks; despite it's obvious power, it felt less comfortable than his original wand.

Perhaps it was because of its power; because of how many lives it had taken, wizard and Muggle alike. Both before and after he became its master.

He stalked forward on silent feet, wand at the ready. Fortunately there were no surprises, and soon he reached the Entrance Chamber.

"First stop, Time Room, please."

Harry entered the door that opened. He'd been here a few times since his first visit, before relations with the Unspeakables soured. Nothing ever really changed here, so he a made a beeline for his target. The entire mission would have to be scrapped if one of the researchers had made off with the artifact since his last visit.

He let out a breath in relief. There it was. High up on a shelf, where he'd seen it on his last visit decades ago. Long before he knew what it was.

Harry caught the artifact, an extremely ornate Pensieve, with a silent Levitation Charm. The Muggles wouldn't be able to detect most wand magic here, as the Department of Mysteries was deep underground and layered with magical protections by generations of the most paranoid witches and wizards of Britain.

Making his way back out to the Entrance Chamber, he began whistling. This felt great - whether it worked or not, he was almost there. Almost done.

"Death Chamber."

Harry descended to the bottom of the pit, and climbed the dais in the middle. He directed the Pensieve to rest directly in front of the Veil. Reaching into his Moke-skin pouch, he fished around, finding a small jewelry box.

Months after he defeated Voldemort, he started having a reoccurring dream. Walking through a familiar looking forest, always along the same path. Stopping in front of a dead tree. Reaching down, into a leaf-filled gap between two roots.

Then he'd wake up.

The Resurrection Stone had called out to him, night after night. After a year he knew the spot in his dreams so well he was able to Apparate to it awake.

He'd never told anyone, not even Ginny or Ron or Hermione. Kept it in secret all these years. Removing it from the box, he placed it into a hemispherical hollow in the bottom of the Pensieve. Perfect fit.

He hadn't really doubted the information he'd found in the hidden library of the Chamber of Secrets, but it was still a relief.

The Pensieve was Salazar Slytherin's greatest creation, in Harry's opinion. Godric and Salazar had captured the Resurrection Stone from a powerful Dark Lord, and Salazar, as the expert on Dark Arts, took it for study.

Salazar developed the Death Pensieve, based on Rowena's work designing the original Pensieve, to enter the memories of the dead directly, rather than being limited to mere discussions with their shades.

Years later, when Slytherin fled Hogwarts after falling out with the other Founders, he took the Resurrection Stone with him, but was forced to leave the Death Pensieve behind.

Over the centuries, the Pensieve found its was into the Department of Mysteries, while the Stone was passed down as a family heirloom, through the Peverells and Gaunts.

Harry was the first person since Salazar Slytherin to reunite the two artifacts. The final piece of the puzzle was the Veil.

Ancient and mysterious even in the time of the Founders, Salazar had devoted years of study to the veil. Using the Death Pensieve in an attempt to trace its origin, he'd followed it back through the wizards of Ancient Greece, Ancient Egypt, to the time of Atlantis.

Slytherin left many fascinating notes behind in his library. They didn't say if he ever discovered who created the Veil or for what purpose, but they had included something of great interest to Harry.

According to his notes, Slytherin had never been willing to test the final enhancement to the Death Pensieve. For one very straightforward reason - it involved walking through the Veil, and for all intents and purposes, dying.

Harry was going to put it to the test. If it didn't work, he'd just have another thing to mock any Slytherins he ran into in the afterlife about.

On the other hand, if it worked, Harry would be able to change everything.

The effect was roughly equivalent to sending a magical portrait of yourself back in time, into your own mind. Salazar Slytherin's plan for immortality that he never got a chance to implement - infinite lives.

If this worked, Harry would be sending his sixty-year old mind back to exactly seven years, seven months, and seven days after his birth.

His memories, personality, and an echo of his very will would persist.

Communication would be limited at first. He'd only be able to reach his past self by manifesting into his dreams, at least until the boy learned some Mind Arts.

He hoped it would be enough. He had nothing else to try.

"Diffindo."

He sliced his left palm open, squeezing it into a fist over the Pensieve. The Resurrection Stone set into the base seemed to suck the blood in as it dripped down.

Harry then began drawing silver memory strands from his temple and placing them into the bowl, where it combined with the blood entering the Stone. There weren't any shortcuts to this part; every memory he wanted to send back had to go in.

Hours later, faint from the steady blood loss, he was ready. Everything useful he knew, plus a bit of fluff to get the kid through hard times.

Lifting the Death Pensieve and hugging it to his chest with both arms, he stepped through the Veil.

PROLOGUE - PART 2

MARCH 7, 1988

He floated in a void of purest darkness, with no body and therefore no senses.

Fragments of memories began to arise, vague impressions at first, but slowly more and more whole.

The first coherent words that came came back to him were his name, Harry James Potter.

Everything gradually fell into place, until he remembered it all. His history, his purpose.

With his memory of his purpose came a sense of agency. Walking through the Veil had destroyed his old body. The memory construct that had gone back in time had no connection to his current body.

Unable to directly access his new body's sense, focused his attention on his _memory_ of sense. Not any one sense in particular, but all of them at once.

There. Faint at first, but gradually louder. The thump of a heart beat. The breath, in and out, in and out, slow and steady, the respiration of deep sleep.

Harry's mind was exhausted from its journey through the Veil and integration with his past body. He quickly joined his younger self in restful slumber.

Weeks passed where he was just along for the ride, reliving life as an unwanted seven year old orphan.

Harry had no interest in going through it for a second time, so he spent the time deep in a meditative trance. Using an advanced Occlumency technique taught to Senior Aurors: he began constructing a Mind Palace.

Based on Slytherin's secret library in the Chamber of Secrets, it was a giant index for all his memories, with each book's title a subject.

Each page contained a memory related to the subject at hand, which could be viewed as a Wizard photo in the book or entered and experienced like in a Pensieve.

He made books for each year of his life and on every subject he'd ever studied whether magical or Muggle. He even had books on Voldemort, the Death Eaters.

Best of all, years down the road when his past self got good enough at Occlumency, he'd be able to go into a trance and come visit this Mind Palace.

Too bad Hermione would never be able to see this.

MARCH 27, 1988

Finally, he manifested into one of Harry's dreams.

Dudley was chasing Harry through the deserted hallways of their school.

As they ran past him, the elder Harry stuck a leg out, tripped Dudley and sending him sprawling.

Two pairs of green eyes met as his miniature doppelganger looked up at him, posture radiating uncertainty and wariness.

"Are you a teacher?"

"Yes, in fact I'm _your_ new teacher. My name isn't from around here and might confuse you, so just call me Mr. P."

Harry sent a nervous glance around Mr. P, looking for Dudley, but he couldn't see him anymore. Hadn't Dudley just been chasing him, before this man showed up? Where did he go? Weird.

Mr. P chuckled.

"Dudley's gone, Harry. Just you and me now. Let's head to my classroom, it's time for your first lesson.

Harry wondered where Mr. P met Dudley. He hoped the man hadn't also met his aunt and uncle. People who met his relatives rarely liked him very much.

He followed Mr. P to a classroom, looking around. The school looked weird, and where was everyone? He tried looking through the windows of one of the doors they past but he just saw his own reflection, like it was dark inside.

Mr. P entered the next classroom, switching on the lights. Harry followed him inside, and Mr. P closed the door behind them.

Hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room, was Dudley. Harry's panic died down when he realized it wasn't his cousin, but a life-size stuffed doll resembling him.

"I don't like bullies, Harry. The key to dealing with bullies is confidence, and one of the best ways to build confidence is by learning how to defend yourself physically."

"Welcome to your first boxing lesson."

Harry grinned. Mr. P was pretty cool, and he'd definitely never met Harry's guardians; there was no way they'd let Harry learn boxing!

"Now boxing isn't just gritting your teeth and foolishly swinging your fists, it's a subtle science and exact art…"

JUNE 23, 1988

Harry loved boxing. He knew it was really weird that he was learning how to box in his dreams, but the results were definitely real.

He was slipping punches from Dudley and his gang more often than not now, and even getting a counter here and there. Harry Hunting was getting more painful for the hunters, and they were losing their enthusiasm.

Of course, Dudley whined to his parents about how Harry was hitting him and his friends. That's why Harry was now grounded, confined to his cupboard for Dudley's birthday.

No food except the dog biscuits Aunt Marge brought as his "present," while Dudley got a computerized robot.

Munching on the dry pet treat, he considered that the food was more useful. He wished he had some water. Mr. P had taught him some calisthenics, but doing them would make him thirsty in no time.

Sighing, he laid back and shut his eyes, trying to shut out the sounds of festivity. He sure wished he could fall asleep despite it only being the afternoon. He wanted to see Mr. P - he was the best teacher ever.

OCTOBER 10, 1988

Mr. P was the worst teacher ever.

Harry thought it was incredibly unfair. Mr. P was making him to all his schoolwork again, in his dreams. Mr. P even kept his own student record for Harry.

"Look, your Aunt and Uncle can't punish you for doing better than Dudley here. I don't care what you do on your other homework. Keep doing the bare minimum to pass," Mr P had said, shrugging.

"But I know you're capable of more, Harry. No more striking or grappling until you've finished that math test with a half-way decent score."

Harry slammed his head into the desk. Here in the dream, the contact barely registered. Sometimes it hurt when he did that. Dreams had strange and unpredictable rules.

Muttering, he continued slogging through the word problems. He'd just turned in the test, excited to get to his wrestling lesson, when he was jerked into wakefulness by Aunt Petunia banging on the cupboard.

"Ugh, instead of learning judo I've got to make scrambled eggs. What a gyp!"

OCTOBER 31, 1988

"Field trip," Mr. P announced, leading him outside the school.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked.

"You'll see," Mr P said while grabbing Harry's hand.

Suddenly, they weren't in front of the school anymore. They stood on a hill overlooking a small village. It consisted of a church, graveyard, and main square surrounded by a cluster of quaint cottages.

As usual in these dreams, the village appeared - deserted aside from Harry and Mr. P, of course.

"What is this place?" Harry asked again. He was sure he didn't recognize the place, and yet it triggered… something.

"Godric's Hollow. Let's head into town."

As they walked, Harry looked around, taking in the old-fashioned style of all the buildings. The town looked historical.

"Is this some sort history lesson?" he asked.

"Of a sort, certainly, Harry. Let me tell you a fairy tale."

Mr. P spun an elaborate tale, of a magical world besieged by an evil wizard.

He spoke of a young man and woman, sent into a hiding by a wise old sage because of a mysterious prophecy.

He spoke of their three best friends, two true and one false. How misplaced trust led the evil wizard to their secret refuge, where they were unable to escape.

Harry was crying by the end, tears blurring his vision.

"Why did you tell me that story? That wasn't fun or even exciting, it was just horrible! The bad guy won, and the good guys barely put up a fight!"

He nearly bumped into Mr. P, who had stopped walking.

"Well, I agree that it's not a very good story, Harry, and it's undoubtedly a very sad one. But it's also not over yet - for there was other person in that cottage that night."

"Who?" Harry asked. Mr P didn't answer, just pointed ahead. Harry sniffed and rubbed the tears out of his eyes, to see what Mr. P was pointing at.

They'd made it to the center of the village, and were standing in front of a large stone monument.

"Go ahead, read the sign," Mr. P said in a gentle voice.

Mr. P usually sounded no-nonsense, sometimes sarcastic, but never gentle. That only made Harry more worried. Heart in his throat, he crept forward, toward the obelisk. He jumped when it suddenly shifted into a statue of a young couple.

He took a step back. Obelisk. Step forward. Young couple. He turned back, raising an eyebrow at Mr. P, but his teacher just gestured to continue.

Steeling himself, he draw closer to the statue. He could now see the woman was holding a small baby in her arms. Wrapped in a blanket, it had a content look on its face.

POTTER MEMORIAL

His heart plummeted from his throat to his gut.

Dedicated to Harry Potter

It continued traveling down to his feet as he read. Defeated the Dark Lord. James and Lily, died as heroes defending him.

Vision blurring, he staggered backwards, losing his balance and landing on his rear. His mind reeled.

He felt Mr D's firm grip on his shoulder.

"Is this a joke, because it's not funny. That fairy tale you made up, just for this?"

"No, Harry. This is very real. James and Lily loved you very much, and they didn't die in a car accident."

Harry was speechless, processing.

"What do you mean real? What about the evil wizard, the magical spells? None of that stuff is real?"

Mr P didn't laugh.

"Harry, magic is perfectly real, just a very big secret. You can't tell anyone."

Harry wasn't sure he believed him, but he couldn't help but looking at the statues. Of his parents, gazing down at him lovingly.

Mr P settled down next to him.

"Everything I told you was completely true, Harry. Missing details, but true. Hogwarts is real. You'll get your letter on your eleventh birthday, and then spend seven years learning how to be a Wizard."

"Me? A Wizard? But, I'm…"

"Just Harry, believe me, I know," Mr P interrupted him with what he'd been about to say.

Harry raised his eyebrows, hoping that Mr P wasn't reading his mind.

"You're the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry. Famous in the Magical World for defeating the evil Dark Lord You-Know-Who."

"Vulmadork?" Harry asked, trying to remember the name from the story, but Mr. P let out a loud guffaw.

"Close, Harry. Voldemort, but mostly people call him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or You-Know-Who."

"That seems a little silly, isn't he supposed to be defeated?"

Mr. P laughed again, but grew solemn as he spoke.

"The magical world can be very silly at times, but it can also be deadly serious. And seriously deadly. Now, we don't have a lot of time before you wake up. I wanted to take you here because tonight is the anniversary of the night your parents died."

"They are buried in the graveyard behind the church. You should pay your respects."

Harry tried to swallow, but the lump in his throat refused to budge. Instead of trying to speak, he just nodded.

Mr P continued up the road and Harry followed.

The headstones were unremarkable, but they didn't matter, what was underneath them did. Harry laid down across both graves, while Mr P told him stories about his parents.

He was still crying when he woke up the next morning, but he also felt better than he ever had before.

He was filled with purpose like never before. Now he understood why Mr P wanted him to do well in school. Both his Dad and his Mom would want it.

He wasn't going to let them down, and he wasn't going to let Mr. P down.

"Freak! Up! Breakfast!" Petunia's shrill voice pierced his thoughts.

He laughed, it all made so much sense now. They called him a freak because they knew he was a wizard. Aunt Petunia had to know, at least.

He was going to show them. He planned to prove them right, by being _freakishly good_ at magic.

"Boy, don't make me come over there!"

Harry didn't know how he was going to wait almost three whole years to become a wizard, he just knew it wasn't going to be patiently.

"Coming, Aunt Petunia," he shouted, to preempt further assaults against his eardrums by his Aunt's screeching.

No, this wasn't going to be easy, but at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel now. Three more years of egg scrambling and screeching Aunts, and then he'd be in for the adventure of a lifetime.

He daydreamed about Hogwarts the whole time he was cooking breakfast.

Fortunately it's hard to mess up scrambled eggs, even for a day dreaming eight year old.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

AUGUST 9, 1989

Now nine years old, Harry Potter was walking down a tree-lined street in Little Whinging, enjoying the summer morning.

His life had taken a marked turn for the better ever since Mr. P showed up in his dreams. He wasn't suddenly a deadly ninja, but he now gave as good as he got in his scraps with Dudley.

Mr. P taught him about weight classes, so he knew he'd always be at a disadvantage against a bigger opponent. Still, Dudley and his gang, unused to any effective resistance, had mostly backed off.

They still bullied anyone he tried to be friends with at school, so Harry kept to himself. At Mr. P's encouragement, he let his grades improve, and stoically suffered through the punishments he earned from his aunt and uncle.

"Their bark is much worse than their bite," his teacher once told him, and Harry agreed. They already treated him so poorly, so he had very little to lose.

Soon enough it just became embarrassing to constantly call attention to the fact he was doing so much better than Dudley in school. So they began ignoring Harry's grades entirely, just as Mr. P predicted they would.

This summer, he'd made a habit of getting up early, getting his gardening work done before cooking breakfast, and then making himself scarce until six in the evening, when he had to be back to cook dinner.

He began speaking to any snakes he glimpsed slithering about during his morning gardening, again at Mr. P's encouragement. They weren't great conversationalists, but Harry followed his teacher's instructions and told them to tell other snakes they met about him.

More and more snakes began to visit Harry, and he made sure to keep any insects he found while digging in the garden. His scaly friends always appreciated a tasty treat.

Mr. P had told him that speaking to snakes was called Parseltongue, and someone who could do it like him was a Parselmouth. Apparently, this had a pretty bad reputation and Harry was supposed to keep it secret, if possible, once he got to Hogwarts.

Harry thought this was another silly aspect of the magical world. Snakes were just normal animals, they weren't evil.

He whiled away most days at the local public library, if the weather allowed for the rather long walk.

The library was, indeed, his current destination. With no school work to review, Mr. P's nightly lessons this summer had focused on the magical world.

Harry was most interested in the lessons on magical beings, like centaurs and house-elves, and creatures, like dragons and trolls. His teacher somehow made them show up in the dreams, amazingly life-like.

Mr. P said they felt so real because they were based on his memories. Upon hearing this, Harry had declared his teacher to have lived "the coolest life ever," which for some reason Mr. P found exceptionally hilarious.

The highlight of his summer had been when, on his birthday, Mr. P showed him how to ride a hippogriff!

His other lessons focused on history, which his teacher seemed very passionate about. While less exciting than coming face to face with a Hungarian Horntail, it was still fascinating, though Harry felt he'd never remember all those names and dates.

He was glad Mr. P wasn't testing him on this stuff; but he did have some homework. Not traditional homework, of course; he couldn't take an essay with him into a dream, after all.

Mostly he read biographies - today he was hoping up to finish up one on Alexander the Great. He didn't always understand all the words but could generally follow the plot.

Mr. P would later explain the bits he hadn't quite gotten, and often add in additional details from his own knowledge that weren't in Muggle books at all.

Reaching the library, he retrieved the book where he'd shelved it the previous day - he still didn't dare bring anything of value home to Privet Drive - and settled into his favorite corner.

He grinned as he read. According to Plutarch, Alexander slept with a dagger and the copy of the Iliad under his pillow.

Harry thought that sounded pretty awesome. He decided to see if the library had a copy of Homer's epic poem, once he finished his current book.

SEPTEMBER 20, 1989

Dudley shoved past Harry as they left class for lunch, knocking his bag to the floor and spilling its contents, then running off and laughing with his friends.

As he kneeled to gather his things, he heard his teacher's voice emanate from the classroom.

"Harry, come in here a minute please, I'd like to have a word."

Harry sighed and complied. When he was younger a few teachers tried to get involved, but nothing had happened. Mr. Fowles was new to the school and seemed pretty cool, but Harry still suspected this was going to be an awkward conversation.

"First of all, Harry, congratulations - you're doing very well so far this year. I had a look at your grades from past years, and… well, I'm glad to see you've turned over a new leaf."

Harry smiled uncertainly, not sure if he was supposed to say anything.

"Yes, well, I wanted to level with you because you seem like an intelligent young man. You were doing so well this year, in fact, that I spoke with Headmistress Roemmele about you. Proposed that we move you up a year. You obviously don't get along with your cousin had his friends, and it's holding you back from your full potential."

Mr. Fowles frowned, his bearing slumping a bit.

"The Headmistress was… quite dismissive of the idea. I pressed her for a reason and learned that she is quite close with your uncle's mother. Childhood friends. So, unfortunately, my hands are rather tied. Still, I thought you deserved to know - though I really shouldn't be telling you any of this."

"It's fine, I won't tell anyone," Harry replied quietly. "I really appreciate that you tried, honestly it explains a lot. Like why Dudley was never held back a grade."

Mr. Fowles' eyes sparkled in amusement. Harry could tell his teacher didn't think much of Dudley when he didn't disagree with Harry's assessment.

"You're a good kid, Harry. I was bullied at school and I'm young enough to remember what that was like very clearly. Let's see if we can't figure something informal out, a little independent study - just between you and me."

"That sounds great!"

Harry was actually quite bored with the pace of his class, now that Mr. P had him more engaged with his schoolwork. The prospect of some more advanced work sounded quite appealing.

He suppressed a chuckle. A few years ago, he'd never have dreamed of conspiring with a teacher to secretly get extra work.

Mr. P was a bad influence - he was turning Harry into a downright bookworm.

Harry agreed to meet with Mr. Fowles again tomorrow to discuss it more. Then he hurried off to get some food before they stopped serving.

Harry hated missing school lunch. They were the only meals he could eat where he got the same portion as everyone else, and everyone didn't glare at him and make snippy comments while he ate.

As he broke into a jog in the deserted hallway, he imagined what the meals at Hogwarts would be like, sitting in the Great Hall, eating feasts prepared by the mysterious House-elves.

—

In the back of his mind, the older version of himself who Harry knew only as his dream-teacher, Mr. P, pondered on the course of events.

He vaguely remembered Fowles as one of the nicer teachers from his youth, but he supposed his poor academic performance hadn't inspired any special interest the first time around.

Despite all his knowledge, he'd never known the Headmistress of his primary school was friends with Vernon's mother. He appreciated Fowles being willing to go behind his boss's back for a student's benefit like this.

Forced to live in Harry's mind, unable to communicate to him except through dreams, he experienced everything Harry experienced. If his younger self was bored, he was bored to death.

He was looking forward to the new lessons as much as Harry; most of his education had been in the Magical world the first time around. That had proven a fatal weakness in the end, one that he was determined to correct this time.

DECEMBER 25, 1989

Christmas with the Dursleys was an annual ordeal Harry dreaded. So, he was extremely excited that night when he found himself dreaming, sitting in a familiar classroom.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. P!"

"Happy Christmas, Harry. I'm glad we got to meet tonight."

"Me too! Mr. Fowles said I'm already finished with the standard coursework for the whole year! I can start learning Latin and algebra after the break."

Mr. P beamed at him.

"That's wonderful, Harry. Having some knowledge of Latin is extremely useful for Spellcrafting, and there are many old books written in Latin for which there are no translations. And of course, proficiency with algebra will aid your study of Arithmancy."

Changing the topic, his teacher grew more serious.

"Now, as proud of your progress as I am, I don't just want to talk about schoolwork tonight."

"Since I can't get you a Christmas present, I wanted to tell you something. I haven't told you before because I was worried you might do something rash with the knowledge. It's about your neighbor, Mrs. Figg."

"Err… alright," Harry said slowly, unable to help feeling disappointed. What could Mr. P possibly know about the batty cat lady that could serve as a Christmas present?

"Arabella Figg is a squib, Harry. She knows about magic, and she knows Headmaster Dumbledore."

"Oh… huh," Harry blinked. "If she knows the Headmaster and the Headmaster has my key, she could get it from him, and then I can convince her to take me to London," he said, thinking aloud.

"You're very fixated on getting the key to your vault, Harry, but money won't solve your problems. We've talked about this. Dumbledore put you here for a reason, and you won't be able to buy your way out of that."

Harry growled. Mr. P had explained about the magical protections the Headmaster had put on Privet Drive. Only possible to cast on the house his mother's sister lived in. The reason he'd been left in a house where he was unwanted.

"At least I could look around, exchange some Galleons so I'm not broke. Maybe buy a book or two on magic," he groused.

"What would your Aunt and Uncle do if they found such a book? I know I've told you to stand up to them more, but this would be crossing a line. You have no reason to know about the magical world, about Diagon Alley. These lessons must remain a secret."

Harry nodded, trying to be logical. Mr. P had explained that he didn't shoot Harry's ideas down for no reason, as many other adults did. He wanted Harry to come up with better ideas, to think things through for himself.

"You're right. Mrs. Figg probably wouldn't want to leave her cats and go to London with me anyway. I still want to contact Dumbledore though. If he's going to leave me with the Dursleys, at least he should let me visit Diagon Alley, so I can get to the money my parents left me."

"Hmm, maybe I could tell her I overheard Aunt and Uncle talking about it? She can't really check that."

"There you go, Harry, sly as a Slytherin," Mr. P grinned.

Harry stuck out his tongue. "I'm just being smart, like a Ravenclaw," he countered.

JUNE 23, 1990

Aunt Marge was visiting for Dudley's tenth birthday, which meant Ripper was also visiting.

Marge's visits were always particularly awful for Harry. Vernon's sister delighted in tormenting him even more than the rest of his relatives and would often needle Aunt Petunia about getting her "poor, dear little brother" burdened with the care such a juvenile delinquent.

Dudley had also been unhappy with Harry - thick as he was, even he was able to see that Harry had some kind of special arrangement going on with Mr. Fowles, and he complained about it incessantly to his parents.

They weren't able to do much other than insult him. He already did all the chores and had no privileges that could be taken away.

All of this had culminated in a very resentful Dursley family, and they had all fed off each other when Aunt Marge started laying into him. Ripper had picked up on the social energy and started growling at Harry ominously.

He dashed out the front door, the laughter and jeering of his relatives and a slavering bulldog hot on his heels. There was a nice and climbable tree a few houses down, and he sprinted toward it, full tilt.

His heart thundered in his ears as his feet pounded the pavement even though it was only a hundred meters or so. Adrenaline rushed through his veins.

He could hear the clatter of claws in pursuit as he drew closer to the tree. Not slowing down, he leapt up, grabbing onto a thick branch and using his momentum to do a pull-up. He slung a leg over the branch and risked a glance down.

Ripper was circling the tree below, eyes rolling, slobbering and snapping.

Harry began working his way further up the tree toward a more comfortable position. He'd have to wait this one out.

Suddenly, high-pitched yelps rang out from the ground.

" _We have driven off the beast, Speaker._ "

In the fading light of dusk, Harry couldn't see the snake speaking to him, so he climbed down. Ripper was out of sight, from the sound of it having fled, tail between legs, to hide between Marge's feet.

Several grass snakes had gathered, their heads lifted to regard him. Tongues flicking out intermittently to taste the air. They were larger than any he'd seen before, easily the length of his arm, though thinner around.

" _Thank you, friends. Have we met before?_ "

" _No, Speaker. We wintered with some you did meet, and came to see the Speaker for ourselves, then decided to stay, there is good hunting here."_

Harry thanked the snakes again and they vanished into the grass. Mr. P had been right again; snakes weren't particularly bright or interesting friends, but they were very loyal to Parselmouths.

Briefly, he was tempted to call the snakes back, and set them on his relatives. Just to keep them on their toes.

His better judgement won out - it would just make them hate him even more, and he didn't want to push them over the edge. Uncle Vernon had a nasty temper.

Still, he didn't want to go back home yet. Aunt Marge wouldn't be happy if Ripper had snake bites on him, and they were certain to blame Harry's freakishness.

Perhaps he'd see if Mrs. Figg was home.

Harry hoped she'd let him stay over until Aunt Marge left the next morning. Maybe she'd even agree to put him in touch with Headmaster Dumbledore!

Mrs. Figg's house smelled of cabbage.

Harry usually stayed with Mrs. Figg when his Aunt and Uncle took Dudley somewhere for his birthday, but this year Aunt Marge was visiting so they didn't go anywhere.

Dudley threw a tantrum, of course, but it had made no difference. Harry suspected Uncle Vernon feared his sister's temper more than his son's.

Mrs. Figg was happy to have him over, despite his Aunt not having called ahead. They were now sharing a cup of tea in her sitting room, each petting a cat nestled in their lap.

"Mrs. Figg, I overheard my Aunt and Uncle discussing something very strange. I'm scared to ask them about it, so I was hoping to get you opinion, because it was really confusing."

"You shouldn't eavesdrop, Harry," she scolded, her expression a little wary.

He put on a bit of a show, hunching his shoulders and staring at his shoes. He fiddled with his sleeves, emphasizing their frayed cuffs and how poorly they fit.

Harry felt a little embarrassed, but Mr. P had coached him for this. Fortunately, it worked, and Mrs. Figg soon capitulated.

"Oh, very well, what was it that you heard?"

"Well, I didn't hear it all, but it sounded like they were arguing about my mom. They never talk about her, ever, which is why I stayed to listen. They were saying she got her letter when she was eleven and were arguing about what they'd do if I got one."

"My Uncle said they he wouldn't let me go. But my Aunt said that the Headmaster would force them. My Uncle didn't like that, but he didn't argue, and he changed the subject."

"Do you know what they were talking about? How could the Headmaster of a school be able to force my Aunt and Uncle to make me go there, even if my mother there? I don't think my parents had a will, I asked my Aunt about that once when we learned about wills in school."

Mrs. Figg was silent for a long time. Harry tried not to hold his breath, hoping she wouldn't blow him off. He looked up at her, but she was staring off into the distance and seemed unaware of his gaze.

Eventually she let out a deep sigh, focusing back on Harry.

"I'm sorry, Harry, it's really not my place," she began, but Harry interrupted her.

"Not your place? So, you know what they were talking about? Please, I just want to contact this Headmaster, if he knew my mother. All my Aunt will tell me is they were drunks who died in a car crash."

Mrs. Figg paled at the last part. She made as if to start speaking several times before going silent again.

"That is a horrible lie, Harry," she finally said. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt if I were to contact the Headmaster, and inform him that you asked-"

Harry cut in again, before she could reconsider.

"You know this Headmaster? That's amazing, thank you, Mrs. Figg! If I could borrow a pen and paper, could you send him a letter from me?"

She agreed and provided Harry with the requested implements.

"How should I address the letter? How soon do you think you'll hear back from him?"

"That's difficult to say, Harry. No sooner than a fortnight; the Mug-," she coughed. "Excuse me. Headmaster Dumbledore's school, that's his name, is in a remote location, and the Postal service is rather slow."

Harry nodded. "I think I should keep this secret from my relatives. Can you put something in your front window to let me know if a response arrives?"

Mrs. Figg dismissed his subterfuge as unnecessary, but he eventually convinced her to humor him. She would hang a bright yellow ribbon over her curtain rod if the letter arrived.

Harry wrote the letter, then settled in for the night on Mrs. Figg's couch. The next morning, much to his delight, he woke to a hearty breakfast she prepared for him.

After thanking her profusely for everything, he reluctantly made his way back to Privet Drive, dragging his feet the whole way. With school out for the summer, he had been excited to resume his visits to the local library.

He dreaded being grounded, confined to his cupboard for the long summer days.

However, when he returned to Privet Drive, his Aunt and Uncle ignored him, and Dudley squeaked and ran upstairs to hide in his room. Harry grinned.

They were actually scared of him!

Harry suspected it wouldn't last forever, but he would enjoy the novelty of it for now.

JULY 31, 1990

The Dursleys stepped lightly around him for a few days after the snake incident, but soon returned to their usual nasty behavior. Fortunately, they didn't try to stop Harry from leaving the house.

His studies at the library this so far this summer had spanned a variety of topics. He continued his studies of Latin and algebra and did a great deal of reading on science.

He focused on the history of science because the stories were so fascinating. Reading them made him feel like he was there alongside Pythagoras, Aristotle, Archimedes, Sir Isaac Newton, Sir Francis Bacon, Mendeleev, and others, as they made their great contributions to mankind's knowledge.

Having just finished a great book on the early development of chemistry, he was planning to switch gears and find something about biology today. Maybe evolution - he'd heard about Charles Darwin and wanted to learn more about him.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Growing up around Dudley, Harry had learned to trust his instincts, and he whirled around, expecting to see his cousin and his gang sneaking up behind him.

He frowned - nothing. Just a tabby cat across the street, licking a paw and watching him with feline indifference. He continued toward the library, less caught up in his thoughts, more aware of his environment.

That was odd. Whenever he turned around, he'd notice the cat not far behind.

Harry was fairly certain it wasn't one of Mrs. Figg's. He'd never seen one at her house with those distinctive markings around the eyes, like square shaped spectacles. He shrugged and ignored the animal. What harm could a cat do?

The cat in question sat and watched the skinny, dark-haired boy enter the local public library. Swiftly it darted into a narrow alley across the street, vanishing from sight.

Several minutes passed, then an older woman wearing even an even older style of dress emerged from the alleyway and strode purposefully into the library.

She found the boy in a secluded corner of the library's upper floor, sitting a small study table in front of a window. He was hunched down reading a book in his lap, while a stack of around a dozen more covered the table in front of him.

Surreptitiously, she removed her wand and cast a few silent spells, to make sure they wouldn't be overheard or interrupted. Then she approached the boy and cleared her throat.

Harry jerked in surprise at the sound, snapping the book shut, jumping out of his chair and spinning around in a single motion. A forbidding older woman gazed down at him with a critical eye, deep frown lines surrounding her mouth.

He was about to apologize - his default response when dealing with irate adults - but hadn't quite yet formulated what to apologize for when the woman spoke.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I'm a professor at Hogwarts."

"Harry Potter, ma'am," he said, extending a hand despite the fact she obviously knew who he was; it was just good manners.

Her stern expressions softened slightly as she took his hand, which Harry had a feeling was a smile by her standards.

"In addition to professor of Transfiguration and Head of Gryffindor House, I am also the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. Headmaster Dumbledore was away from the school when your letter arrived so it was delivered to me."

"Mr. Potter, reading the slanderous lies your Aunt and Uncle told you about your parents was too much for me to bear. Your parents were in Gryffindor, my House, while they were at Hogwarts, and they were some of the most talented and kind-hearted students I ever had the pleasure of teaching. They were most certainly not drunkards who died in a Muggle car crash."

The venerable woman was clearly feeling quite emotional, breathing hard after the short speech. Harry already knew some of this from his dreams with Mr. P, so he wasn't quite sure what to say. She seemed to master herself, and continued, fully composed.

"You, Mr. Potter, like your parents before you, are a wizard. You'll attend Hogwarts next year when you turn eleven and begin learning magic. Normally, since your Aunt and Uncle know about magic, we'd have sent you an acceptance letter and expected you to visit Diagon Alley accompanied by your guardians."

"However, given the contents of the letter you sent, I've decided this would be insufficient in your case. I expressed my reservations to the Headmaster about leaving you with those Muggles, and I fear he was mistaken to dismiss my concerns. You have my apologies that I did not press him further on the matter."

"If you're willing, I'd like to escort you to visit Diagon Alley, and give you the usual introduction we'd give a Muggleborn student. It's the least you deserve, Mr. Potter, and I hope that would make for a suitably pleasant birthday."

A grin split Harry's face from ear to ear, and he quickly expressed his enthusiastic consent, practically hopping from foot to foot.

With no ribbon appearing in Mrs. Figg's window, he had more or less given up on hearing back from the Headmaster. He certainly hadn't woken up expecting to end up in Diagon Alley.

He'd even entirely forgotten it was his tenth birthday!

—

Even after everything he'd seen and learned in his dreams, he was totally unprepared for how awesome magic was in person.

First, Professor McGonagall had cast a barrage of spells at him. One shrank his clothes to fit him properly, another repaired the various patches and frayed edges. Finally, she caused a small hand mirror to appear out of thin air and handed it to Harry.

His hair had lengthened, curled, and lightened to a reddish brown, and his eyes were now blue instead of green. Other features of his face had changed a bit here and there as well - his nose was a bit pointier, and his cheekbones more pronounced, and probably other things he couldn't pick out.

"I don't recognize myself at all," he said.

"That was my goal, Mr. Potter. The Potters are well known in our world, and you are the spitting image of your father. I believe it would be best if we pretend you are merely another Muggleborn, so as to avoid any unwanted attention, however well-intended it may be."

Harry nodded vigorously. From what Mr. P had told him, what McGonagall said was quite the understatement. The mysterious Boy-Who-Lived would probably get swarmed if seen for the first time in a decade in Diagon Alley.

Next, the Professor removed a chess piece from her handbag, a white pawn.

"This," she explained, her voice taking on an experienced lecturer's cadence, "is a Portkey. Any inanimate object can be turned into a Portkey; this was just an ordinary Muggle chess piece before the charm was cast, and that is all it will be again once the charm fades. Muggles, to be clear, are what witches and wizards call people without magic."

"However, while the charm remains active, the Portkey can transport anyone touching it to a specific destination. This particular Portkey will take us to a private room in the Leaky Cauldron, a pub and inn that also contains the only passage between Diagon Alley and the Muggle world."

"A room is set aside each summer for this purpose, to serve as an arrival point for Muggleborns on their orientation. Traveling by Portkeys can quite dangerous if proper precautions aren't taken, and thus their creation is strictly regulated. It's important the designated arrival location be kept clear, so that the arriving party doesn't arrive on top of someone. Any questions so far?"

Harry had about a thousand, but he was even more excited, both to try out the Portkey and to see Diagon Alley. He could always ask Mr. P later. He just shook his head, then grabbed ahold of the chess piece when instructed to do so.

The world became a dizzying blur as Harry felt a tremendous yanking sensation jerk him upwards. He tensed reflexively, expecting his brains to splatter on the library's ceiling. But then he was high above the ground, spinning all the while, so the sky and ground kept switching places.

Then he was hurtling toward the ground. He braced for impact… and stumbled as there was none at all. One moment he felt like he was moving a thousand miles an hour, and then he was just standing on the ground with no downward momentum.

The experience was jarring, and he fought a wave of nausea, taking several controlled breaths with his diaphragm, a technique Mr. P had taught him.

McGonagall, who looked completely unfazed by the trip, gave him an approving nod when he looked up at her after collecting himself.

The professor gave him a few more instructions, along the lines of "don't run off and don't talk to strangers," and then led him out the private room, through the crowded pub, into a small rear courtyard.

"This is the entrance to Diagon Alley," McGonagall said, motioning at a nondescript brick wall opposite the door to the pub. "You tap these bricks…"

Harry was ready to burst with anticipation. The bricks in the wall began to re-arrange themselves into an archway supported by two stylized pillars, opening to reveal to Harry his first glimpse of the magical world.

McGonagall motioned him forward, and he walked through, eyes wide.

This was, without a doubt, Harry's favorite birthday ever - tied for his all time favorite day ever, along with the one Mr. P showed up in his dreams. Though Harry supposed that was a night, technically.

Harry had seen dream versions of many of the sights before, with Mr. P, but they had been deserted except the two of them and all misty and dream-like. Seeing everything in person, solid and real, all bustling with activity, left Harry feeling elated.

He had harbored doubts. Feared he was going crazy, after all it wasn't normal to learn things in your dreams. The Dursleys had instilled a strong sense of what was normal in him, perhaps above anything else, so he was quite certain of that.

Yet this validated everything his mysterious dream visitor had told him over the past couple years. Everything he had promised. Harry really was a wizard. He beamed up at his companion, who was already back in professorial mode.

McGonagall pointed out the important landmarks, while using them to explain concepts that Harry would be unfamiliar with, if it weren't for his unorthodox private lessons.

He could tell she was a good teacher and looked forward to learning Transfiguration from her.

Their first stop was Gringotts, of course, so that Harry would be able to withdraw some money as he had requested in his letter. The goblins were scary, but the ride on the mining cart to his vault was exhilarating.

McGonagall had politely given him privacy in his vault, and he'd just stuffed his pockets with Galleons until he couldn't fit anymore.

He stopped at another counter and a surly goblin handed him a fat stack of Muggle currency in exchange for a few handfuls of Galleons.

Harry had entered a pauper, and left feeling absurdly wealthy.

He'd have to stop by Diagon Alley again before attending school next year, McGonagall explained, to purchase his wand and the other items on the First-Year shopping list.

"However," she finished, "I'll allow you to purchase a few things now - I can tell you're an avid reader, so we'll stop by the bookstore. First, let's stop by Leaky Cauldron - the room we arrived in is also reserved for our lunch."

Over lunch, McGonagall interrogated him over his situation at home. He didn't enjoy talking about it, but Mr. P had slowly convinced him that none of it was his fault and that the Dursleys were the ones who were misbehaving.

The professor seemed to agree, particularly when he let slip that he lived in the cupboard under the stairs while his cousin Dudley had two bedrooms.

"Mr. Potter, your situation continues to shock me. Have no doubt that I will have words with the Headmaster, who has the final say in such matters, and with your guardians, who should be ashamed of themselves."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Professor," he contradicted respectfully. "I think they'll just be angry at me if someone magical talks to them. They really hate magic."

McGonagall made a face at the notion but didn't immediately disagree with him. She tapped her chin, looking thoughtful.

"I did tell Albus they were the worst kind of Muggles," she muttered under her breath.

"Perhaps you are correct, Mr. Potter - I will defer to your judgement on the subject of your guardians, though I still feel I must speak with the Headmaster about it."

Harry nodded agreeably, mouth currently full of pasta. He didn't much care what she told the Headmaster.

He wasn't even sure it would be a bad idea for her to talk with his Aunt and Uncle, but things had been pretty calm lately, and he didn't want to rock the boat.

The first shop they visited after lunch sold a variety of magical luggage. McGonagall looked a bit uncomfortable about him spending so much, but she didn't stop him when he purchased an expensive model enchanted with Extension Charms to contain a modest living area.

Part of the reason it was so expensive was it was fully furnished. Shelves lined all the walls, except one which was dominated by a large rolling-top desk beneath a lofted bed.

Best of all, the trapdoor leading to the magically expanded area was Charmed to be invisible to Muggles. This would be his sanctuary, somewhere the Dursleys could never go.

The shopkeeper put a Voice-Activated Shrinking-Engorging Toggle-Charm on the trunk for an extra fee, after Harry inquired over a more convenient way to transport the trunk without the use of wand.

The trunk already came with a Permanent Feather-Light charm, which would keep it comfortably light no matter how full.

Harry smirked. He planned on putting that Feather-Light charm to the test. Books were heavy, after all.

At McGonagall's insistence, they made a few practical purchases. Pretty boring, though Harry was glad to have some clothes that weren't hand-me-downs and brand-new glasses that made his vision crystal clear.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in Flourish and Blotts. Harry ended up buying a couple dozen books after browsing through at least a couple hundred over the course of four hours.

Professor McGonagall was amazed at the boy's clear passion for learning. He was busier than a Niffler in a Gringotts vault, and when it was time for them to leave, she nearly had to drag him by his arm to purchase his selections.

The stern woman normally would never have let a young orphan spend so exorbitantly on their first visit but couldn't help but indulge a soft spot for the child of James and Lily Potter.

Particularly when he'd clearly had so rough a time of it with those Muggles. She decided to treat him to dinner back at the Cauldron before Apparating him home. How dare they not feed the child properly?!

That night, back in his cupboard, Harry pulled his shrunken trunk from his pocket and set it on the floor along the back wall, where the shadows were deepest.

" _Engorgio_ ," he whispered, while tapping the miniature trunk with his right index finger in lieu of a wand to activate the charm.

For the first night ever, Harry Potter slept in the most comfortable bed in the Number Four, Privet Drive.

Even the best Muggle money could buy didn't compete with good charm-work when it came to comfort.

DECEMBER 30, 1990

Minerva McGonagall contemplated the glass of Firewhiskey sitting on her desk, delicate strands of smoke curling up from the beverage's surface.

Charlie Weasley, star Seeker and Captain of her team, was leaving school early to start a prestigious internship as a dragon handler on a large preserve in Romania. The largest in Europe.

She was proud of Charlie, but he was going to miss the final Quidditch match, and the Reserve Seeker was a nice boy but, if McGonagall was being fully honest, rather inept.

They were going to be _smashed_ in the final game against Slytherin. That meant Slytherin would get the Quidditch Cup. Thanks to the antics of Charlie's younger brothers, the already infamous Twins, that meant Gryffindor had no chance at the House Cup.

Flitwick's Eagles might edge out, but likely Snape would be smirking away with both Cups in his office at the end of the year. Again.

Minerva downed the shot just as a knock sounded at her door. Smoothly exhaling the smoke through her nose, she raised her wand and cast a silent Scourgify to remove the scent of alcohol.

"Come in," she called out.

The caretaker, Argus Filch, entered her office, his bearing seemed even more resentful than usual.

"Good evening, Argus, how may I help you."

"Mail. From the Muggle Post," he stumped to her desk and dropped a letter on her desk.

Odd at this time of year, but not unheard of. Addressed directly to her, not the school. No return address. She tried to recall if any Muggleborns were staying at the school as she opened the envelope.

Minerva smiled with delight, her worries about family emergencies vanishing. The letter was from Harry Potter.

He thanked her again for taking the time to escort him to Diagon Alley and introduce him to the magical world. He emphasized how much more pleasant his life was with his new possessions and expressed how excited he was to be coming to Hogwarts next year.

He wished her a happy Christmas and New Year, wished her luck with the rest of the school year.

She leaned back, a warm feeling in her chest. Mostly the Firewhiskey, she decided, but she did hope the Hat would put Mr. Potter amongst her Gryffindors next year.

JULY 24, 1991

Harry had switched up his schedule over the last week, doing his gardening chores later in the day despite the heat of the sun.

Mr. P had reminded him in a dream that his Hogwarts letter would be arriving soon, and it'd be best if the Dursleys didn't see it.

The mail arrived in the afternoon, and the mailman had started handing the mail directly to him right away, when he ran up and stuck out a hand.

Harry quickly scanned the day's arrivals before delivering them through the slot in the front door himself.

Today was the day, and he tucked the odd-looking envelope addressed to him under his waistband, covered by his sweaty t-shirt.

He abandoned his gardening work and hurried inside, dropping the Dursleys' mail on the designated table by the door, then made for the sanctuary of his trunk.

Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he reverently opened the letter. The shopping list held no major surprises - he'd bugged Mr. P endlessly for details all summer, to the lesson-obsessed teacher's visible frustration.

As much as Harry respected his mentor, he hadn't been able to help himself. The envelope did contain something unexpected though - Professor McGonagall had included a small personal note for him!

Short and to the point, she thanked him for the letter he sent her for Christmas, told him he needn't reply as requested in the official letter because she knew he planned on attending Hogwarts already.

She also included instructions on getting to Platform 9 and 3/4, which she explained had slipped her mind during their Diagon Alley visit. Finally, she wrote that if he did need any help, he should send her a letter as soon as possible, and that she would make the necessary arrangements.

Harry appreciated Professor McGonagall's concern, but decided he'd be fine on his own. He didn't think he could wait long enough to send a letter.

He also wasn't as excited to try Portkeying or Apparition for the _second_ time now that he knew what they were like.

He knew there was a train to London. Tomorrow, he could head to the library and start planning his trip to the city.

So distracted he was scarcely able to function for the rest of the day, he burned dinner and got sent to his cupboard hungry by an enraged Uncle Vernon.

His mind too fired up and his stomach too empty to sleep, he cracked open the introductory Arithmancy text he'd picked up last year. His maths was good enough now, according to Mr. P, but it was still difficult reading - dry and dense.

Better than counting sheep. The complex formulae quickly dissolved Harry's excitement, while his hunger faded to a familiar dull ache on its own before long. He drifted to sleep with the vague hope he'd get to see Mr. P that night, but it wasn't in the cards.

JULY 28, 1991

Several days of rain had forced Harry to delay his plans, letting his excitement cool. He was glad he did, because he finally had a dream with Mr. P, who gave him a lot of useful advice.

Today, he was finally leaving Privet Drive.

Harry expected it to take four hours to walk to the train station, so he rose before sunrise, helped himself to the ingredients for a few sandwiches for the road, and left the Dursleys a note stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.

At Mum's school, required to return this summer; see you then.

HJP

He downed a few glasses of water to hydrate for the journey, packed his sandwiches away in the top compartment of his trunk, and made it out the door before the sun crested the horizon.

The fastest route to the train station committed firmly to memory over the long rainy days, Harry strode forth rapidly, almost jogging.

He didn't stop until a small park he'd picked out near the midpoint of his journey, where he settled down at a picnic bench to each his lunch. He made sure no one was in sight when he expanded his trunk.

Harry was getting a little footsore, but the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and he was starting his new life as a wizard. Mr. P always went on about the dangers of the magical world, but Harry didn't care.

Anything short of Azkaban was better than life with his relatives in Little Whinging!

Harry ate his second sandwich on the train to London, after expanding his trunk in the cramped and somewhat unsanitary privacy of an on-board toilet.

Upon reaching the city in the early afternoon, he walked down Charing Cross Road towards the Leaky Cauldron, stopping at several Muggle shops along the way.

Mr P had made him memorize a long shopping list of mundane items, and he did his best to find everything his teacher wanted him to have. Even when it seemed strange or unnecessary given the conveniences which, even with his rudimentary knowledge, Harry already knew to exist in the magical world.

Some, like a black baseball cap and a cheap mechanical watch, didn't need any explanation. Harry put those two on right after purchasing them.

He spent the longest time in the Muggle bookstore right next to the Leaky Cauldron, accumulating a hefty stack of non-fiction that had the salesclerk giving him a rather incredulous look.

Fortunately, the man accepted Harry's crisp Pound notes without making a fuss.

Honestly, as if it were so strange for eleven-year-olds to be interested in - among other things - linear algebra, Latin, Ancient Greek, Egyptian hieroglyphs, electrical and mechanical engineering, quantum physics, and the history of architecture.

Harry chuckled ruefully as he exited the shop, the top compartment of his trunk packed to the brim with his new books.

To be fair to the salesclerk, those books were _mostly_ for Mr. P. Though, Harry was quite interested to learn how to read hieroglyphs; Egypt was full of ancient and mysterious magic.

The Leaky Cauldron was his next stop, where he rented a room through morning of September 1st.

He spent the next remained of the night in his new lodgings, tired from the long day. After a long, hot shower, he took a quick nap to recharge, then ordered room service and ate a much-needed meal.

The next few hours Harry sorted through his new purchases, slowly carrying everything down into his trunk's Expanded space and organizing everything as best he could.

Finally, he transcribed the receipts he'd received into a notebook, and counted up his remaining Muggle currency. Mr. P was trying to teach him bookkeeping.

Taking a look at his new watch and seeing it was past midnight, he set an alarm for eight in the morning and went to sleep in the bed in his trunk in favor of the unfamiliar rented one.

In the morning, after breaking his fast with another order of room-service, Harry stopped by Gringotts to replenish his depleted coffers.

Well-funded, his next priority was getting a wand, which led to a lengthy visit with the inscrutable Ollivander.

Now the proud owner of a holly and Phoenix feather wand, Harry set about getting the rest of his Hogwarts shopping list taken care of.

By the time his stomach insisted on lunch, he had everything except his textbooks. And his order from Madam Malkin's, which wouldn't be ready until the afternoon.

Returning to his room at the Leaky Cauldron, he put in another order for room service and repeated his errands from the previous night, logging his purchases and storing them in a trunk.

After eating, he took out his wand and tried a few simple spells. Mr. P said they couldn't detect underage magic in a place as magical as Diagon Alley.

At first, he was still worried the Aurors would show up knocking on his door, but after he successfully lit the tip of his wand for the third time with no ill consequence, he decided it was safe.

He let a whoop of joy - he was truly on his way to becoming a wizard.

Once he started feeling comfortable with the Wand-Lighting Charm, he set back out for the Alley. He planned to pick up his robes and then spend the rest of the day browsing Flourish and Blotts.

Harry almost whistled a jaunty tune as he walked down the bustling magical thoroughfare. Not quite; it was too ingrained in him to avoid notice - but almost.

As eager as he was to get to Hogwarts, he was going to miss this sense of total freedom. He resolved to make the most of the next month.


End file.
